Bye-bye, morning misery

What on Earth possessed me to agree to this, to laying my wardrobe bare to the ministrations of Trinny and Susannah?

Luckily, their brief today is not what not to wear so much as what to wear: fashion's most forthright duo are appearing in NescafÈ Original's latest campaign with advice on minimising morning misery by choosing an appropriate outfit for the day ahead, a decision we usually make when we're blurryeyed and resentful.

Trinny and Susannah are here to help: to create, using clothes from my own copious stock, three looks that will take me easily from day to night.

They turn out to be far less frightening in the flesh than they are on TV but, while it's not quite a case of Nice Cop, Nasty Cop, it is certainly a case of Nice Cop, More Acerbic Cop.

Susannah is warm and lovely and says things like 'You look fantastic' or 'You've got a real eye'. Both comments make me feel absurdly chuffed, although I have so many clothes that, by the law of averages, some are bound to be nice; Trinny (almost) tells me to stop being precious.

Nevertheless, they are careful - when dishing out practical but potentially painful observations - to draw parallels with themselves. 'You're very long in the body,' says Susannah, looking me up and down. 'Like Trinny.'

Their readiness to discuss their own physical faults - witness the unflattering pictures that fill their own style guides - is definitely part of their appeal.

And their frankness is, frankly, so refreshing that you're less likely to be upset by their comments than you would by a mate who won't tell you what she really thinks.

It also reminds you that theirs is not the only way to dress. Trinny and Susannah play style fairly safe; not for them the experimentations of out-there club culture.

So when they decide to launch into some of my key favourites - an Ozoc sheepskin jacket ('It looks like it's been stored in an ashtray for 20 years', says Susannah), my YD:UK harem pants ('The circus is in town!') and my black kneehigh boots, with attached gaiters, from Swear ('They make your leg look as though it's encased in a cast'), I just mentally file them away for those fun night outs where Trinny and Susannah probably wouldn't be caught dead.

Susannah's final advice is probably the most useful. When I complain I haven't a clue how to put things together, she asks if I know why.

'When you wake up, you see all these clothes and nothing looks as though it goes,' she says. 'You need to sit down one afternoon just working out outfits and then hang them together.

Or take polaroid photographs.' Blurry eyed I may be in the morning - and anal as Susannah admits this sounds - it could be the trick to getting me out the door.